That's What Friends Do
by L Zaza
Summary: A short buddy story from the Academy days.
1. The Front End

That's What Friends Do

By Lisa Zaza

How does a nice, practical guy like me find himself freezing his astrum off on a gloomy, damp, blustery day during Autumnal Equinox at the side of a Caprica City road? Well, apparently that's what friends do. Believe me, otherwise I'd be back at the Academy tucked in my warm, inviting bunk. Yeah, that slab of lumpy mattress is looking damned fine in comparison to this brisk wind coming in off the Caprican Bay, cutting through my jacket and chilling my hands to the point that if I slap them together one more time, they may just shatter into a million fragments.

But hey, at least I'm dressed for it. The poor fools I'm here to watch are already soaked to the skin, equally so from the sweat pouring off of them as from the foul weather. I have to admit that when Apollo first told me about this ambition of his to compete in the Caprica City Slog, I thought he'd been smoking plant vapours. After all, a guy has to be under some kind of mind altering influence to even think about running forty-odd kilometrons, carrying a twenty kilon pack on his back, all because of the _challenge_! But then my thinking shifted ever so slightly when he said he was raising cubits for underprivileged kids through some organization his mother championed. Forgive me if I'm a little hazy on the details, but for four sectars he's been droning on in my left ear about all this while he's been training, and my natural preservation instinct took over, feeling a mind-numbing boredom set in. Instinctively, I blocked a lot of it out in favour of pretty girls, fast fighters and shady card games.

Just look at them out there. A long endless line of people jogging along, all shapes, sizes, age groups, most of them here for some kind of charity or personal fulfilment. I'm trying to imagine any part of self-imposed endurance, pain or suffering being in any way satisfying, but to be honest, it's escaping me. However, I've been told more than once that I'm selfishly motivated, so maybe it's beyond me. Hey, let's take that theory and _run_ with it . . .

"You're doing great! Amazing! Looking good! Excellent! Good effort! Keep up that pace! Awesome!"

It's that guy on my right again. He's appointed himself as a one man cheering squad and seems to know every tenth person out there. I must have heard that same combination of words about three hundred times now. But one in three runners will smile and grin in return, some even taking the breath to thank him. I guess when you commit to this kind of exercise, it's nice to have people out here recognizing your efforts. Hey, it's even inspired me to slap my ice-cold hands together a few times, usually when some poor sap is looking ultra miserable. But mostly, I'm wondering when Apollo will pass by so I can get the frack out of here. I told him I'd be waiting around the ten or eleven kilometron mark. It was easier to get down here and I wanted to avoid the mayhem in town at the starting line. Thousands of people gathered together, pumped with altruistic adrenaline; it was downright scary and to be avoided at all costs.

Okay, my fingertips are officially numb. Even blowing hot air on them doesn't do much. Meanwhile, some guy just ran by barefoot. I can't even contemplate what _that's_ all about. Yeah, it's official. These people are crazy. Which means I'm a couple cards short of a deck myself for being out here watching them.

"Starbuck!"

Holy frack, I just about didn't see him! He looks _stoked_. A big ole silly grin on his face that makes me realize that he's glad I'm out here. And weirdly, this sudden rush of excitement hits me, and I'm whistling, whooping and shouting his name, throwing my arms in the air and telling him he's looking great. It all floods out of me before I even know it. I make the one-man cheering squad look like an amateur with my sudden attack of enthusiasm.

He gives me a thumbs-up, jogging by, and then he's gone. I'm suddenly off the hook and I can get my frozen astrum to a java shop to warm up. Maybe—if I'm not doing anything later—I'll come see him on the way back. There's a part of me that's a bit inspired by his feat.

But with a little effort, I think I can get over it.


	2. The Back End

In typical Caprica City fashion, the weather has broken. The sky cleared up and the sun is beating down on my face, making me a happy guy. Sagan's sake, I love this spur of the moment coastal weather_. _ You never know what you're going to get. Suddenly, the entire picture has changed; it's easy to be back here waiting to catch Apollo on the backend of his race.

I actually recognize some of these runners: the ones wearing tutus and tiaras, the two wearing matching poulon hats, and the guy with the bare feet. It gives me hope that Apollo will be coming along soon and I can finish my "best friend duty". The marker here reads thirty-five kilometrons. Even a lazy daggit like me can't help but be impressed by these folks. For some reason I thought they'd all be perfectly toned athletes, but most of them are just normal looking people trying to achieve something that they think is worthwhile. Then again, apparently I missed the frontrunners. The men and women who do this professionally for the prize money or to qualify for the next big event. It boggles the mind that those athletes were apparently running three centon kilometrons. Sounds a little inhuman to me, actually.

I grin as this time I see Apollo in the distance. The group of runners has thinned out some and this time he's easy to spot. I'm surprised that an answering mong-eating grin isn't occupying his face as he heads straight towards me. In fact, he looks downright exhausted. Spent. Apparently, running around with a twenty kilon pack on your pack will do that to a guy.

"I can't do it . . ." Apollo gasps, actually stopping in front of me, his mouth open and his chest heaving as he leans over, his hands resting on his thighs. Sweat is pouring off of him and his hair is plastered to his head. "The hills did me in. My calves are so tight that I can't feel my feet. I think I'm going to be sick. This is tougher than I thought . . ." He shakes his head from side to side while apparently doing a thorough examination of his running shoes. "I don't have it in me. I'm going to quit, Starbuck."

I grabbed him by the straps of his pack, hauling him upright and staring him in the eye. My hands are wet from the accumulated sweat in his new shirt that he told me would "wick" moisture away from his body, apparently passing it on to the first unsuspecting passerby. He's riper than Ortega's locker. I don't think I've ever seen defeat written on my best friend's face. One thing I know for certain is that it sure as Hades doesn't belong there.

"No, you're not."

Apollo just looks at me, shaking his head. From the deep and dark recesses of my brain I remember him telling me that the mental battle for long distance runs is sometimes more difficult than the physical one. That runners come up against a "wall" and that they need to find something to help them push past it. Obviously, he doesn't remember me advising him to find a beautiful woman with a shapely astrum to follow in this circumstance . . .

"I'll walk with you, I'll push you, I'll do anything short of carrying you, but you _are_ going to finish this mong-raking race, Apollo."

The next thing I know, I actually have a hand on one strap, and I'm dragging him along for a couple steps before he falls in beside me, walking at a pace that the Academy has programmed into both of us. I don't know what came over me, really. After all, if he wants to quit, I should just let him. But somehow I know that what he needs from me just now is a reason to keep going.

"This is all just a ploy to get me in the race, isn't it?" I quip with a dramatic shudder of revulsion.

Apollo smiled, looking over at me. "Thanks, Starbuck."

"Happy to kick your astrum, buddy," I reply.

Over the next five kilometrons, I came to realize a couple things. First, that I was probably going to have a blister on my left big toe, and second, that those somewhat annoying one man cheering squads out there were damn important during life's challenges. Frankly, it never occurred to me that Apollo _wouldn't_ finish this race. This was a complete surprise to me. He's one of those people that just does what he says. He radiates confidence, and when that fails him, he falls back on honest to goodness stubbornness. It was a little surprising to see he was subject to the same foibles as the rest of us mere mortals. Funny . . . I think I respect him even more because of it.

Finally, he was looking less beaten, although truthfully he still looked like desiccated mong, especially next to me. But around that forty-klick mark I could see a subtle change come over him. He was only two kilometrons short of the finish line by this point.

"I'm going to run the rest, buddy," he told me, effectively setting me free, relieving me of my responsibilities. Even behind the grim determination, I could still see some uncertainty lingering in his eyes. "I'll catch you later."

"I'll see you at the finish line," I told him, not letting him off that lightly. In for a quantum, in for a cubit. I could cut across town, getting there before him, especially at his current pace.

Which takes _me_—the guy who didn't want to be surrounded by altruistic adrenaline—front and centre to the finish line in the heart of Caprica City. An eighty-yahren old woman just crossed the finish line with a "PB" time—that's "personal best" to you and I. About fifty metrons behind her, I can see Apollo maintaining a slow but steady pace, his features wan with exhaustion, but a grin hijacking his face as he hears me hooting and hollering in concert with the rest of those gathered to applaud the efforts of all these inspiring runners.

When he crosses the finish line, I just about burst with excitement for him. He did it! He actually finished this thing! I have no real right to be this proud of him, but I am. It's amazing! Awesome! I break through the crowd, and he sees me, his familiar grin owning his features now. He pumps his fists in the air, and I mirror him, slapping my hands against his in victory.

"You did it!" I holler.

He nods, and then this weird look comes into his eyes. He slips off his pack, letting it drop to the ground, but then hesitates before finally saying, "I thought maybe you'd think less of me . . ."

"Think _less_ of you? Are you insane?" I reply in disbelief. Apollo had a certain set of standards all for himself. Maybe it comes from having a father who is both a bureautician and a Battlestar commander, but by nature, he's way too hard on himself. "You just finished the Caprican City Slog with a twenty kilon pack on your back! You're my frackin' hero, Apollo!"

I don't quite know what it was I said that did it, but finally he looked happy, satisfied that he'd finished the race, instead of worried about the fact that he almost hadn't. Then this volunteer came up, slipping the official medal around his neck that all finishers were awarded. I'll always keep that picture of him in my mind, wearing his medal, a triumphant grin on his face, knowing he'd overcome mental fatigue and physical exhaustion and had prevailed. Of course, the blonde in the background was emblazoned in my visual box of souvenirs as well.

"So . . . are you going to run it with me next yahren, Starbuck?" Apollo asked.

"Not on your life, buddy," I replied instantly, grinning at his resulting laughter. "But I _might_ give Triad a shot if you're still looking for a partner . . ." Now where in Hades had _that_ come from? All this inspiration had apparently gone to my head. It was a classic case of my mouth kicking in before my brain. Not exactly an isolated incident, or so I'd been told.

"Really?" Apollo asked, just as surprised as I was.

"_Well_ . . ." I sucked a breath in slowly through my teeth, trying to figure out how to get out of this. I pulled his pack up off the ground, slinging it over a shoulder as I steered him through the crowd. At the bottom was a six pack of cold grog and a cryo pack, courtesy of yours truly.

"Give me a few days to recover and I'll book a court. I tell you, Starbuck, you're a natural at Triad. Give me a season and I swear we'll dominate the Academy league," Apollo enthused.

"A _whole_ season?" I asked with my usual cockiness. In truth, we both knew I needed to familiarize myself with the rules of what I called "Court Triad", having played a more casual variation of the game when I was growing up that involved open courts, hoops and fists. That Triad even _had_ an applied set of rules had, in fact, been a revelation to me. "You might want to rethink this. I can see me getting thrown out of more games than I actually finish, Apollo. You _don't_ know what you're getting yourself into."

Apollo slung an arm loosely over my shoulders, apparently forgetting that he smelled like a fermented Boray. Then he shrugged as if my warning was of no possible consequence. "Oh, you'll finish them, Bucko, and _I'll_ be there to make sure of it. That's what friends do."

xxxxx

The End


End file.
